


El Diablo

by Suryaofvulcan



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-07
Updated: 2006-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-16 07:03:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8092348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suryaofvulcan/pseuds/Suryaofvulcan
Summary: Challenge Fic. As 'Enterprise' approaches, a malevolent spirit stirs ...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: A/N: This is my attempt at a spooky â€˜Enterpriseâ€™ story, in response to RoaringMiceâ€™s Halloween challenge. Iâ€™ve also included all the elements of MaryCâ€™s AU challenge (Tucker/Reed preferred for slash; angst; something supernatural; incorporate the line "I've got better things to do tonight than die!"; a ritual; something nasty) - if dreams can be regarded as AU. BTW, this is as menacing as Iâ€™ll ever get (ie, not very).  
  
Beta: SueC  


* * *

He had existed for aeons; since before the beginning of time. He had taken many forms, been called by countless names on thousands of worlds through untold millennia. To the Sandrans he was Elvix, the soul eater; to the Tamarians he was Lochee, essence of evil; to the Oviari, a betentacled race who communicated by means of their distinctive pheromones and by subtly changing the colour of their skin, he was a disgusting shade of puce and a particularly pungent odour, which together meant simply â€˜chaosâ€™. And in one small corner of a watery planet orbiting an insignificant yellow sun, on a narrow strip of land connecting two large continents, he was known as El Diablo.

He had been asleep, alone in the darkness, waiting in the vast emptiness between the stars while civilisations rose and fell, for centuries. But now the little silver-grey ship with its eighty-three puny, barely sentient inhabitants came near and scanned â€¦

He stirred. Woke.

He could have annihilated them with a single thought, but something made him pause, examine them more closely. He recognised the species, and although they were technologically more advanced than the last time he had visited their world, their minds were still primitive, trapped within their small, unbelievably fragile skulls. He hadnâ€™t played with their kind in a long time.

Silently, he invaded their dreams.

~~~

Malcolm Reed pulled his thick woollen cloak closer around his body as he glanced up at the darkening sky. It was growing colder, the shadows of the man and his steed lengthening rapidly in the twilight as the low sun descended towards the mountains he knew he must reach before nightfall. 

â€œCome on, my beauty,â€ he murmured, urging the faithful but exhausted bay mare onward. â€œI have better things to do tonight than die.â€ The mare snorted softly, as if in agreement.

He had been travelling since dawn. The old priest had warned him he must travel only during the hours of daylight, when El Diablo was at his weakest. At night, he would need to find some refuge, somewhere he could hide, cowering like a frightened animal, protected only by his vigilance, two loaded pistols, and the ancient ritual the priest had taught him.

He coaxed the mare up the rocky path into the foothills, searching by instinct and half-forgotten memory for the cave where he and Madeleine had sought refuge the one time they had run away together as children. They had remained hidden up there for several days while Captain-for-hire Stuart Reed and his men had combed the valley below, ten-year-old Malcolmâ€™s already formidable tactical and hunting abilities keeping them fed, watered and concealed. But finally six-year-old Madeleineâ€™s initial excitement at the adventure had given way to unbearable homesickness and she had begun to cry for her mother, and Malcolm had been unable to do anything but take her home.

But even the most severe beating his father had ever administered had not induced him to reveal where they had hidden, and as an adult heâ€™d never told the story to anyone. Not even Carlos.

*Carlos*, he thought, blinking back the hot sting of tears behind his eyes and suppressing a hiccupping sob as a stab of unbearable longing pierced his heart. Carlos, the man he loved with all his heart and soul. The man who was now lost to him for ever. The man from whom he was running, in fear of his life. 

He shook himself and returned his attention to helping his mount pick her way over the uneven ground. There would be time enough for mourning when he was sure of his escape.

He reached the cave just as the sun dipped below the horizon, dismounting and hastily checking it for signs of human or animal occupation before leading the mare inside. Then, as the last filaments of sunlight faded from the sky, he made a small campfire and took out the black velvet pouch the priest had given him. 

As he had been instructed, he placed the six smooth, dull green stones at regular intervals along the mouth of the cave. Then he threw a pinch of incense into the fire - gasping as the heavy, pungent scent invaded his nostrils - sat cross-legged on the ground, and began to recite the ancient Latin incantation. The priest had told him the ritual would help conceal his location from El Diablo and afford him some protection while he slept, but Malcolm wasnâ€™t entirely convinced. Heâ€™d never had a great deal of faith the old beliefs. He planned to stay awake tonight.

Muttering the final words of the incantation, he genuflected, and then sat silently, staring into the fire. Inevitably, his thoughts turned to Carlos.

Malcolm remembered their first meeting, at the home of a mutual acquaintance. Heâ€™d been instantly captivated by the man with the golden hair and dazzling ocean-blue eyes, his warm smile and relaxed, friendly manner momentarily overcoming Malcolmâ€™s innate shyness and caution. Carlos must have recognised something in Malcolm too, because as the evening progressed he became ever more attentive and more than a little flirtatious. And as soon as they were alone, Carlos had come to him; his warm, soft lips closing tenderly over Malcolmâ€™s, his tongue gently seeking entry as Malcolmâ€˜s mouth willingly opened for him, his hands stripping away their clothing and caressing Malcolmâ€™s skin. Malcolm had responded eagerly to the tender assault, revelling in every touch, in the solidity of Carlosâ€™ warm body pressed against his, until at last Carlos had pushed him playfully down onto the bed, and Malcolm had unashamedly parted his legs and begged Carlos to take him.

Afterwards theyâ€™d lain together, bodies entwined, touching and caressing and exchanging sweet, soulful kisses in between talking about everything from art and history to gaming and politics. Theyâ€™d exchanged ideas and opinions, not always in agreement, but each enjoying the intellectual challenge the other presented, until at last theyâ€™d made love again as the predawn light crept into the room.

Two weeks later, Malcolm had collected his meagre belongings from his lodgings, and moved in with Carlos. 

The next two years had been some of the happiest of Malcolmâ€™s life. Carlos was an attentive yet passionate lover, but more than that, he was a true and trusted friend. Not since he was a small child, trailing on his motherâ€™s skirts, had Malcolm felt so valued and loved, and every day he silently thanked Carlos for that gift.

But that was before Carlos had changed. Before he had been taken, consumed, possessed by El Diablo.

Two days ago, Malcolm had woken, not to the warm embrace and tender, loving kisses heâ€™d grown to expect, but tied securely to the bed frame, face down and spread-eagled, unable to move.

â€œCarlos?â€ He was so shocked he could barely speak above a whisper, though he loathed himself for his weakness. They had occasionally played sex games, but Carlos knew Malcolm couldnâ€™t bear to be restrained.

He felt the bed dip as someone moved behind him, and then there were rough, cool hands on his body. He struggled, testing his bonds, forcing himself to breathe slowly as he tried to forestall the panic rising in his chest.

â€œWho are you? What have you done to Carlos?â€ he demanded, relieved that his voice sounded steadier.

There was no reply, only hot breath against his neck and those hands roughly grasping his hips, and he suppressed a cry of pain as, with little preparation and less lubrication, the stranger forced his way into Malcolmâ€™s body.

Malcolm buried his face in the pillow, closing his eyes and biting his lip. He was determined not to cry out, and he did his best to detach his mind from what was happening to his body. He concentrated on his fears for his lover, hoping desperately that the same fate, or worse, had not befallen him.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over, the stranger giving a grunt of completion as he lay on Malcolmâ€™s back. A few moments later Malcolm felt fingers carding through his hair, and he couldnâ€™t help the shiver of revulsion that ran through his body.

He heard a quiet, humourless chuckle behind him. â€œYou are mine,â€ the stranger said. The voice was harsh, and held an undertone of malice - the words a grotesque parody of the ones Carlos sometimes whispered in his ear as they made love - yet Malcolm would have known it anywhere. 

Something must be dreadfully wrong: Carlos - his sweet, loving Carlos - would never treat him this way.

The weight shifted from his back, and then a dark figure loomed over him. In the dim light Malcolm could just make out his loverâ€™s familiar features, but the warmth and the ready smile he loved were gone, replaced by a twisted, malevolent mask. And then Carlos met his gaze, and Malcolm reeled in shock. The dazzling blue eyes that had so captivated Malcolm now glowed, blood-red.

Malcolm was transfixed; mesmerised by those strange inhuman eyes. â€œItâ€™s been some time since I last took corporeal form,â€ the voice turned slick and oily as not-Carlos leaned over him. â€œIâ€™m going to enjoy playing with you - and your lover,â€ he whispered in Malcolmâ€™s ear, sending a cold shiver that had nothing to do with his nakedness down his spine. â€œItâ€™s a pity you are so fragile. I doubt you will last long.â€

Just then the first fingers of sunlight slid between the shutters, and abruptly the creature who had once been Carlos straightened and stalked out of the room.

Bound hand and foot to the iron bed frame - cold, naked and alone - Malcolm finally allowed himself the luxury of a few bitter tears. He cried not only for the violation and abuse he had just suffered, but for everything he and Carlos had meant to each other, and everything that now seemed lost to him. But soon the practical, tactical part of his mind superseded his pain and grief. He didnâ€™t know how long the creature would leave him alone, and he knew that if he was to have any hope of saving himself - and Carlos, if he could - he would need to find some means of escape. He allowed him self a soft snort at the irony: he was well practised at extracting himself from difficult situations, and only recently had he managed to convince himself that he would never be forced to flee from Carlos.

He tested the heavy hemp ropes that bound his wrists and ankles, but he concluded there was no hope of breaking them. He twisted and turned his wrist inside the rough bindings, hoping he would he feel one of them begin to loosen, but all he achieved were deep grazes in his skin as he tried to work his hand free. His muscles were already cramping from being tied too long in one position. There seemed to be little hope.

He didnâ€™t know how long he lay there, periodically renewing his efforts to free himself and trying to keep his muscles loose, before he heard the door open once more. He steeled himself for another assault, but was surprised when a plate of bread and cheese was placed on the nightstand beside him.

â€œEat.â€ Not-Carlos stood over him, dangling a piece of cheese at the corner of his mouth.

â€œI canâ€™t eat like this!â€ Malcolm protested. â€œYouâ€™ll have to untie me.â€ He was puzzled by this gesture of care, however rudimentary it might be, but he pushed the feeling away, well aware this might be his only opportunity.

â€œNo!â€

â€œPlease,â€ he begged, glancing up into the red eyes above him, feigning submission, â€œjust one hand. I canâ€™t eat with my face in the pillow.â€

The creature who wore his loverâ€™s body seemed to consider, gauging Malcolmâ€˜s quiescence, and then he reached over and began to release Malcolmâ€™s left hand.

Malcolm was ready. As soon as his hand was free of the rope he lashed out, cuffing the side of the blond head as hard as he could. The creature staggered back, momentarily dazed, and Malcolm quickly released his other hand and feet.

â€œMalcolm?â€

He glanced up as he heard his name spoken in Carlosâ€™ usual voice. His heart leapt as beautiful but confused blue eyes gazed back at him.

â€œCarlos?â€ He started towards the other man, joy in his heart.

Immediately the eyes turned red once more, and the beloved face twisted in to a malicious grimace. â€œYour lover is strong. He fights. But he will not defeat me.â€

Malcolm kicked out again as the creature bore down on him. It backed away from his assault, and Malcolm took the opportunity grab his trousers and shirt before he made his escape through the open door, the creature hard on his heels as he sprinted down the stairs. He noticed the house was dark, lit only by candles, all the shutters closed against the sunlight, and then he reached the door to the street and threw it open, allowing light to flood into the dark hallway, and the creature behind him gave an anguished roar and fell back as he ran into the empty street.

â€œYou will never escape me!â€ The words echoed behind him as he ran.

Malcolm had no clear plan and no idea where he would go, but he knew he needed to find refuge, and quickly. He couldnâ€™t run stark naked through the streets for long. His eyes searched for a place where he could at least pause for a moment to dress and plan his next move, and almost immediately they fell on the church, itâ€™s doors as always thrown open to any who cared to enter.

â€œBless me Father, for I have sinned,â€ he murmured as he slid into the confessional.

Malcolm was Catholic by habit rather than conviction, but the townâ€™s old priest had always been prepared to lend him a sympathetic ear, and if the Church officially condemned Malcolmâ€™s relationship with Carlos, Father Mendez had never allowed it to come between them.

â€œEl Diablo,â€ the priest intoned solemnly, handing Malcolm a cup of hot tea. They sat in the priestâ€™s private rooms, Malcolm having just completed his account of the morningâ€™s events. â€œYour friend has been possessed by a powerful demon, my son. El Diablo is as old as the mountains. He has not been heard of in these parts for many generations.â€

â€œWhat can we do?â€ Malcolm said, desperate to find a way to free Carlos.

â€œYou must flee, as far away as possible. Your friend is lost, and El Diablo will not rest until he has found you again.â€

â€œBut â€¦ what about when I hit him? Carlos overcame him then. Heâ€™s still there, alive! There must be some way â€¦â€

Father Mendez shook his head sadly. â€œCarlos is lost. There is no way now to separate him from El Diablo. According to legend, the demon will grow stronger with each passing day, feeding on his hostâ€™s life-force. He will soon consume Carlos.â€ He leaned over and patted Malcolmâ€™s arm sympathetically. â€œYou must protect yourself, my son. Come, you can spend the night here, but you must begin your journey at first light.â€ He stood up and beckoned Malcolm to follow him.

â€œWhat about El Diablo? You told me he is stronger at night; that he can move freely.â€

â€œHe will not set foot on hallowed ground. You will be safe here.â€

In the morning, Father Mendez had provided Malcolm with some warm clothing, his horse, and two pistols, and Malcolm had reluctantly headed for the mountains, but not before he paused to take one last, painful look at the house heâ€™d learned to call home. He intended to reach the sea port beyond the mountains by the end of the second day, and from there to take a boat to England, the land of his birth.

A scraping of gravel brought him out of his reverie, and he tore his eyes away from the fire and turned his attention to the mare.

â€œHey, my beauty, settle down,â€ he murmured. The horse gave a soft whinny.

Then Malcolm heard another sound behind him, a boot on gravel.

He whirled around, but he wasnâ€™t fast enough. He caught a glimpse of blood red eyes as a hand grabbed his throat.

â€œDid you really think your pathetic ritual would protect you?â€ the cold, harsh voice said as Malcolm was pushed against the back wall of the cave. â€œI told you you would never escape me.â€

And then El Diablo began to squeeze.

~~~

Malcolm started awake, fear clutching at his chest, his heart racing as he gasped for breath. Momentarily disorientated, he felt relief flood through him and relaxed back onto the pillow as he recognised his surroundings: his quarters on â€˜Enterpriseâ€™, his bed, and his partner snoring softly beside him.

He checked the clock on their bedside table. 0500. Not worth going back to sleep. He turned on his side and smiled tenderly as he gazed at Tripâ€™s sleeping face, the last remnants of his nightmare banished by the memory of last nightâ€™s lovemaking.

When their relationship had begun, more than two years ago, Malcolm had never imagined he would end up playing the submissive role to Tripâ€™s alpha male, but heâ€™d been surprised to discover he enjoyed it. Bottoming wasnâ€™t the way heâ€™d imagined at all; not with Trip. They were equals, in bed or out, neither one truly or consistently dominant. Trip was an insistent and passionate lover, often overwhelming Malcolm with a whirlwind of desire, yet even in the throes of passion, his kisses were always sweet and loving, his touch unfailingly tender. 

More often than not, their showers would end with Trip on his knees, pleasuring Malcolm with his mouth. In bed they would lie together, bodies entwined, mouths fused, tongues duelling, hands exploring smooth skin and soft hair over firm, solid muscle. And when they finally joined, Malcolm willingly relinquished control, trusting Trip completely.

Heâ€™d never felt so cherished.

He gave a soft, rueful chuckle as images from his dream came back to him, thinking that perhaps his subconscious had some unresolved issues with it after all.

He reached out and gently traced his fingertip along Tripâ€™s eyebrow, and Trip turned towards him, muttering something in his sleep.

Malcolm let his finger wander down the sweep of Tripâ€™s nose, his eyes falling on his loverâ€™s softly pouting lips. He couldnâ€™t resist. He leaned forward and kissed him gently.

At the touch of Malcolmâ€™s lips on his, Tripâ€™s eyes fluttered open.

They glowed, blood red.

 

THE END


End file.
